


If You Give A Crowley A Tartan Thermos (He Will Be Emotionally Vulnerable)

by kitkatsnow



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatsnow/pseuds/kitkatsnow
Summary: What if the holy water was not just Crowley having a plan in case Heaven or Hell found out, but also a safe guard against Falling again (this time, from his angel's grace)?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84





	If You Give A Crowley A Tartan Thermos (He Will Be Emotionally Vulnerable)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Good Omens or any of the characters or settings or a tartan thermos (sadly).
> 
> The timeline jumps from just before Crowley asked Aziraphale for the holy water to a random point in their past (Rome perhaps? or celebrating the success of Hamlet?) to just after the holy water conversation to right before the "You go too fast for me" scene to after the Apocawasn't
> 
> I cannot believe I have to say this, but I do not want this to be used on an app that makes revenue in any sort of way (e.g. ads, a subscription service).

The more Crowley thought about it, the more important he realized it was to have a plan. He would move Heaven and Hell and everything in between, move all of Creation if he had to to keep his angel safe. There had been shifty figures hanging about the past decade or so. He knew his angel could handle them, his angel could handle any humans that came his way. But what if his angel decided he didn’t want to? What if those shifty figures had something better to offer his angel? What if those shifty figures showed his angel why Crowley actually wasn’t good for him, wasn’t good at all, his angel deserved good things and Crowley wasn’t good and… He shook his head, slowly working his way out of the tangled thoughts, careful to not touch any for fear of spiraling again. 

He had to figure out a plan. They had been eating together a lot, and sometimes they would spend most of the night together, and he had brought chocolates that one time, so clearly there was something there beyond the Arrangement that hadn’t been discussed. 

Crowley promised himself to not be the one to start that conversation. He knew better. Knew either he would be rejected or … Or his angel would settle. And Crowley would be ecstatic, because he was selfish. But also, he would feel guilty because he did love his angel, even if he was a demon.

His angel deserved so much better. Eventually his angel would find better. And Crowley needed to be ready. He had learned to ignore the pain of being rejected by Her, the constant searing pain in his back, the pain of seeing his creations in the sky and wondering if they were also disgraceful because he created them, wondering what that meant for everything he did. But the thought of losing his angel, of never seeing him again, of his angel hating him at best, of the far more likely outcome of him being apathetic toward Crowley.

He took a shaky breath and tapped his leg to make sure it really was him in this corporation. He couldn’t help but be grateful that humanity had decided to start covering legs again when he realized there was a gash on his leg. But he shouldn’t have legs, which is why there was a gash. But his angel had never understood this, the only partially formed hips and knees and how they ached and how difficult it was to balance them just so to avoid them falling apart while walking. His body shouldn’t exist, so reminding himself that it does leads to consequences someone as perfect as his angel couldn’t ever fully understand. His angel used to lecture him about why being in pain was bad. Crowley always had to bite his tongue to avoid reminding him that that is his entire purpose on this Earth, is to be in pain because he is bad and every word he speaks is a corruption. Sometimes he is afraid to speak his angel’s name; it is holy in a way that tastes like mint and vanilla and crepes and burning without pain. He knows his tongue corrupts the word, certain saying something so holy could kill him. He thought about trying it again and again until he got it right, but he could never bring himself to do it, fearing he might corrupt his angel in the process of purifying himself. Fearing what his angel would do if he ever found out. 

So he knew what he had to be prepared to do. He had to be prepared for the inevitability that his angel wanted him to leave. He felt his voice catch in his throat just thinking about asking the question. He should write it down; make sure he couldn’t chicken out and just beg his angel to never leave. He couldn’t ask that of him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” Crowley was too drunk to think through the question, of what he was saying, of the implications. Later, he would blame it on the alcohol, but just sitting next to his angel make his head a little fuzzy. Wonder when he became “his” angel? “Demons look like a pile of goo when they are hit with holy water. Saw a nasty ambush once.” Crowley bit his tongue before it could hiss. Looking at his angel eased the pain before it got to be too much and he started floating again. “and I imagine you know what demons look like when you smite them.” At this, Aziraphale looked at him with an absent look for a moment before coming back. “Don’t think there are any others ways, at least not that I could find.”

At this, Aziraphale sat up, spilling a bit of his drink on Crowley.

“What do you mean ‘that you could find’? Why in Hell would you be looking?” Crowley just stared at Aziraphale, not sober enough to remember just how dense his angel was, but certainly not drunk enough to walk into this trap.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley stared at the paper as it burned in the water. He felt something painful welling up. He growled at the sky, at the geese, at Her. And he decided.

He was a demon. Demons are selfish.

He would have the love of his angel if it took the rest of eternity to find a way to earn it. If he had to crawl on his belly for the rest of eternity, to destroy the stars he created and loved so dearly, if he had to find a way to get to Her and fight Her personally, he was going to be selfish. And he was going to be loved by his angel.

He couldn’t believe he ever trusted his angel enough to let his guard down like that.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley sat in the Bentley, hoping he would come. Hoping he would still want him. Hoping saving him in the church proved to the dense angel that Crowley would not be the one to leave. He would stay until his angel no longer wanted him. Though, that was a lie, wasn’t it? He had already stayed when he wasn’t wanted. Perhaps he should just go, complete the heist, let his angel “fraternize” with others. He laid his head against the headrest, biting his tongue in an effort to bite back the thoughts escaping like a hiss from their designated spot in his mind, tapping his leg until he could see the dark red seeping through. He sat up, determined to complete the heist, to accept that not even walking on consecrated ground and saving his books was enough to earn his angel’s forgiveness for the way his tongue corrupted that holy name, corrupted everything it said. Before he could speed off to the church, there was a click. He felt his angel. He had thought, almost hoped, that he was just imagining it. But no, here was his angel. 

He took a deep breath. Time to actually face problems then. This would likely end in his death, but looking at Aziraphale, he would gladly die to make this angel, the one angel who is holy, whose name tasted like mint and vanilla and crepes and burning without pain, happy. To see him smile, no matter how briefly. Then, Aziraphale held up a tartan thermos, and Crowley knew this would be his salavation.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m glad” Crowley looked up from where he had been fussing over a rug, making sure it was just right where it was meant to be. He glared at it for a second before turning to face his angel, Aziraphale.

“Glad about what?” Aziraphale moved forward, holding Crowley’s hand in his own. He sighed, before continuing. Crowley looked down and saw the red, and silently berated himself.

“Glad you didn’t use it on yourself. I know...” Aziraphale trailed off. Crowley wanted to talk, to fill up Aziraphale with love until there was nothing left, but he saw that more needed to come out first. He bit his tongue, metaphorically, and curled his tongue, literally, to remind himself to be patient. He knew whatever Aziraphale would say was likely long overdue. When Aziraphale first said it, he didn’t realize that moving too fast sometimes just meant sometimes talking about things when they happened or just within a thousand or six years. Now, he can’t believe he never realized it. It would make things a whole lot easier if he just knew when there were issues so he could fix them, or try to, or at least try to make things better. But he knew that as insufferable as he found it when Aziraphale was upset and he couldn’t fix it, his angel seemed to feel absolutely deplorable when he couldn’t help someone. Crowley felt Aziraphale shift, and came back out of his head. It was much easier to find the exit when his angel was there, almost like one of those big red exit signs in movie theaters. “I know, sometimes, occasionally, you, have thought about,” Aziraphale looked at the rug, still not certain where Crowley had found a rug in the tartan he designed.

Crowley started to sigh, and bit his tongue before it could turn into a hiss.

Aziraphale seemed upset by this reaction. Crowley decided that biting his tongue wasn’t the best choice.

“Occasionally? Angel,” Crowley took a deep breath, looking deep into Aziraphale’s eyes and rubbing the ribs he broke three corporations ago. “Would you like for me to be completely honest?”

“Yes”

“Are you sure that’s what you want? Absolutely certain, Angel?” Crowley asked again, trying to give Aziraphale an out, trying to tell him that he wouldn’t like what was about to be said. Feeling that he was standing on the edge again, that his questions would cause him to Fall yet again. That there would be no sauntering vaguely downward this time.

“Please. Honest, always”

“Not a moment has passed since I,” Crowley took a breath, “since I Fell, that I haven’t wished for oblivion. Most of the time, it’s just the background noise to my life, like the searing pain of a thousand stars exploding in my spine.” Aziraphale made that face that meant they would talk about that later, likely after Crowley had been drunk enough to get cuddly, and gotten drunk off of the stupid angel who didn’t realize that he was what got Crowley so drunk, not whatever wine they were sharing. Crowley was learning, though. Slowly, at a glacial pace sometimes, but he was learning to be vulnerable with his angel. Even if he feared exposing his angel to who he really was would corrupt him, destroy him, and how could he ever forgive himself if he hurt his angel? But he already had, hadn’t he? And-

Crowley realized he was tapping his leg again, and took Aziraphale’s hand.

“But, I have learned to deal with it. I decided to live for spite, to prove Her wrong. And then, I decided to live for humanity. They needed someone to protect them, to help them, I haven’t done a good job of that, but...” Crowley trailed off again. He looked at Aziraphale. He wanted to say ‘And then, I decided to live for the angel who protected humanity, who was so kind he gave his sword to protect them, who protected me when no one ever had before. I waited centuries to live for you. I waited for you to turn out like the other angels, or like the demons who claimed they would protect each other. And you didn’t. You certainly messed up, more times than I could ever count. You have abandoned me, called me horrible things, and through that, I’ve learned that you will not always protect me. You won’t even always care about me, perhaps not even always love me. But I will always love you. Despite my best attempts to not.’

Crowley felt his voice catch in his throat, despite none of this being said aloud.

And Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, into his angel’s eyes, and for the first time, allowed him to admit something he might never be able to say out loud.

‘I will love you, even if you become indifferent to me. I am my own being, but who I am has been so thoroughly changed by you and who you are, I cannot be indifferent toward you any more than I can be indifferent towards Her. I might pretend to, but I fundamentally cannot be indifferent towards the ones who created me, who define me.

Sometimes, I think you’re what She is supposed to be. 

I am willing to live for you, even if one day you leave. Even if you become utterly indifferent towards me, I will live, if only because you might get yourself locked up in France looking for a decent crepe again, and someone has to come rescue you.’

Instead of pouring out his soul to Aziraphale, Crowley settled for telling him what he wanted to know.

“I am literally always on the brink of seeking out oblivion. But I have decided to live, for spite.” Crowley added, habit kicking in.

“Crowley,” his angel said, and it sounded like hell fire being put out by holy water, like the floor where Heaven and Hell meet, like an Angel doing the wrong thing and a Demon doing the right thing. It sounded like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object and the creation of something new that was somehow both and neither and like quantum entanglement and like the creation and destruction of stars all at once. It sounded like hurting and healing, and in a way, maybe that’s what it was. This was a problem that could not be solved. The only way to help was to exist together, which at times would hurt both of them and would inevitability lead to Crowley remembering that Aziraphale was probably better off without a demon for a partner.

“Anyways, I wouldn’t use what you gave me on myself, because I know you’d blame yourself.” Crowley tried to bite his tongue, he really did, but found himself hissing, “Plus, I knew if I got it on my own I might use it if something happened, but I could never use something you gave me like that. Sometimes, I let you see I was in a bad spot so I couldn’t, you know, because then you’d blame yourself, thinking there was more you could do or some rot like that, and I couldn’t do that to you. And existing with you made the pain more bearable.” Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face, looking at him with such tenderness that Crowley had to look away.

“My dear-” Crowley wasn’t sure he could keep from spilling his entire soul to Aziraphale if this kept up, but turned to face him anyway. Instead of forming more words, Aziraphale’s lips met Crowley’s. He tasted like burning without pain, like the sting of snowy day, like vanilla and crepes and hot chocolate, and like healing.


End file.
